there must be a way. surely there must be a way that we have not yet thought of. who put this brain inside of me? it cries it demands it says that there is a chance. it will not say "no.

Basically, that's why I wrote: to save my ass, to save my ass from the madhouse, from the streets, from myself.

Do you hate people? I don't hate them...I just feel better when they're not around.

That's how it is with books, isn't it: They're not in a hurry. They'll wait for you till you're ready. People empty me. I have to go away to refill.

Bad luck for the young poet would be a rich father, an early marriage, an early success or the ability to do anything well.

And yet women-good women--frightened me because they eventually wanted your soul, and what was left of mine, I wanted to keep.

We are hardly ever as strong as that which we create.